Sweet Prison: Chapter 4

One year later

(Zahara, age 15)

A soft knock on my door pulls me out of the deep, dark pit that is my math homework. “Come in.”

“Zara.” Iris, our maid, peeks in. “Am I interrupting? I wanted to get your take on the curtains that need to be changed in the parlor.”

Her tone is serious, but there is a slight smirk on her face. The one she wears whenever she has a letter for me.

I leap off the bed and dash across the room.

“Sure. Come in.” I basically drag her inside and shut the door. “You have it?”

“Yes. I snagged it as soon as I picked up the mail.” She pulls the folded envelope from her pocket and hands it to me. “Do you need me to drop off your response today?”

“I’m not sure, yet.”

“Okay. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

She turns to leave, but I grab her arm, stopping her. “Thank you. For everything.”

Iris is only a couple of years older than me. She’s been working full-time for us ever since her mom—our cook—got really sick a few months ago, and Iris ended up dropping out of school. But even before that, it seemed like she was always at our house, often helping the maids with housekeeping or working in the kitchen with her mom. And for the past three years, Iris has been an accomplice in my “pen-pal plan.” When I first started writing to Massimo, she was the one who got me the postage stamps. And now, when I can’t do it myself, she mails the letters for me. She also diligently checks the incoming mail every day. That way, she’s able to pull out and hide Massimo’s replies before anyone else has a chance to spot them in the stack.

I’m so thankful for Iris. For being my trusted ally. My friend. Especially since I can’t admit to Nera about my letter exchange with our stepbrother. I want to, and so many times I’ve considered confessing, but I’m too worried she’ll go into an “overprotective sister” mode and tell Dad. Nera’s concerns for me have been spiking lately, with her bugging me to tell her everything that’s happening at school and wanting to know if anyone has been bothering me. I love her, so much, but I see the strain in her. She’s carrying enough weight on her shoulders without having to worry about mine, too.

“I told you already, you don’t need to thank me.” Iris smiles.

I squeeze her arm. “How’s your mom? Is she feeling better?”

“No. Not really.” Her face falls. “The doctor changed her meds again, and our insurance won’t cover the new ones. I may need to find a second job.”

I clench my teeth. Life is so unfair sometimes. Iris’s dad was a Cosa Nostra soldier, and when he got killed on the job, the Family “compensated” her mother with money. Not that it did them much good. Due to her illness, Iris’s mom can’t work at all anymore, so Dad hired Iris as our maid. Now, Iris is solely responsible for taking care of her mother and their mountain of bills.

“Wait here,” I say and rush to my vanity where I keep my jewelry box. Grabbing one of my cuff bracelets, I bring it to Iris. “It’s eighteen-karat gold. Hopefully, you can get enough for it to cover the cost of medicine for a few months.”

“Miss Zara…” she chokes out, staring at the bracelet. “No. Your father gave this to you. I could never accept—”

“Please.” I take her hand and place the trinket on her palm. “No one could save my mom, but maybe the doctors can save yours. Besides, I hate that blasted thing anyway.”

“No. I can’t.” She tries to give the bracelet back, but I just shake my head.

“You can. And you will. I hope your mom gets better soon.”

Iris sniffs and wipes her eye with her sleeve. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As soon as she departs, I tear open the envelope. It’s been weeks since Massimo’s last letter. Like all the previous ones, it’s written on plain white paper, with ordinary blue ink.

For a few moments, my eyes absorb the cursive text, admiring the way Massimo makes every word and letter look so perfect. I’ve always been amazed by the beautiful, even flow of his writing. There is an elegant uniformity to each stroke. Every capital A has the same little curve. Each T is crossed with an identical horizontal line that always seems to be of a similar length. But my favorite is the uppercase Z. Sharp, boldly written, with a small dash across the middle.

Once I’m done feasting on his penmanship, I start reading the actual words.

Zahara,

I’m glad that school is going well. Education is the only investment that carries no risk. It can never fail, and it can never be taken away from you.

I’m happy to hear you enjoyed lunch at Brio’s with your dad. You can learn a lot from businessmen like them, so you should definitely consider joining Nuncio on other such occasions.

The new renovation project at the Bay View Casino sounds very promising. I discussed the details with Nuncio last week, and it sure seems like there are many variables that need to be handled. For a project of such magnitude, estimating the final costs is very difficult. Things can go wrong in two hundred different ways. And that would be bad. But a skillful project manager can cope with the unexpected. Sometimes, though, mistakes can get pushed beyond two hundred and one, and that would just be one wrong thing too many. I feel very strongly about that.

If you’d like to learn more about similar projects, you should visit your father’s friend, Monet. He used to hang out in Nuncio’s study a lot. Maybe you’ve met him? Bearded guy who’s usually wearing a beret? If you haven’t, you can find him at Harrison Avenue, number 4195. I’d love to hear his thoughts on this subject.

With regards to your question—No. It’s definitely not quiet here during the night.

M.

As usual, I need to read the letter several times to decode it. It took me a while to get used to the way he formulates his requests—enlacing his letters with subtle hints about what he needs me to do. A year ago, I would have just gaped at this message, completely baffled by the content. Not anymore. I’ve had a lot of practice.

In one of his earliest letters, Massimo asked if I’d seen the Mission: Impossible movie. He said that in prison, there’s very little privacy, and he wished messages had a way to self-destruct like in the film. It was an odd thing for him to mention, especially without further context, but after steaming the Tom Cruise classic, I finally understood that my stepbrother wanted to write me something that he did not want others to see.

In letters that followed, he would recommend other movies to me, never mentioning why he thought I would like them but telling me of his favorite scenes. I’d watch them, of course, trying to figure out what it was he was trying to tell me without actually spelling out the words.

After that, Massimo would point me to more movie scenes, or passages from books, or even real-world events, and I’d scour each to get what he was hinting at, eventually understanding what he needed me to do. Deciphering his code words took a bit longer—sometimes two or three letters and a lot of googling through references before his meaning would sink in. But it did, and now, it’s like we formed our own lexicon.

As I turn his latest letter in my hands, excitement flutters in my stomach at each little clue he’s written. His creativity never fails to amaze me.

This time, he wants me to stick close to my dad and try to find out more about what he discusses with his capos. That’s fairly clear. And he wants to know if the renovations at the Bay View Casino exceeded two hundred grand. But the rest? Hell if I know.

I don’t remember a guy in a beret coming over to our house. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any man—outside of military guys on TV and hipster, artist types—wear one in modern life. I google the location he mentioned, and find that it doesn’t exist. Harrison Avenue is a former industrial area that’s being redeveloped into a trendy neighborhood with luxury housing, and it has just over a thousand listed addresses. Nothing like the 4195 Massimo indicated.

After reading the perplexing part one more time, I hide the letter under my bed and head downstairs.

Dad is still not home, and Nera is spending the day at Dania’s. Most of the staff are occupied with hanging the new curtains in the parlor. Making sure they don’t notice me, I turn left into the hallway off the stairs and slip into my father’s study. I’m not certain what Massimo was getting at, but he must have mentioned this room on purpose.

The study is empty, as expected. No bearded guys lurking inside, waiting for me to discuss the business of renovating commercial properties. As I turn to leave, my eyes land on the painting on the wall behind Dad’s desk. It’s a rendition of a guy whose dark beard hides the lower part of his face. He’s wearing a gray coat. And a black beret. Hesitantly approaching the painting, I take in its impressive array of light and color, as well as the ornamental frame that surrounds it. In the center of the bottom edge, there’s a little plaque.

Self-Portrait With A Beret

Claude Monet

“Hello, Mr. Monet,” I snort, then start feeling around the frame. On the right-hand side, I find a tiny button. I push it, and the painting swings open like a beautiful door to a hidden room, revealing the safe concealed behind it.

After throwing a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure the study door is still closed, I punch in the four-digit code Massimo cleverly relayed in his letter into the keypad. With a muted click, the safe pops open.

After seeing hidden safes revealed in movies, I expect to find money, jewelry, and other loot inside. But it’s nothing of the sort. Just a bunch of file folders, stacked and filling the interior nearly to capacity.

No wonder I’ve never found anything overly useful within the desk drawers. Looks like Dad keeps all his paperwork in here. Massimo either found out the code to the safe somehow, or Dad never bothered to change it.

My hands shake as I leaf through the folders, trying to find anything related to the renovations at the casino. For some reason, this feels different from going through Dad’s desk, and I’m kind of bothered by the taste it’s leaving in my mouth. The thing is, though, I know that I’m doing this for a good cause.

The Family has been enjoying prosperity and a steady flow of business success over the past decade.

And it’s not thanks to my father.

It took me a while to understand the true nature of things, and where everything and everybody actually stands. At first, I thought Massimo simply wanted to stay on top of what’s going on around here. But gradually, I realized it was much more than just curiosity. Dad might be the official don of the Boston Cosa Nostra Family, but he’s not the one calling the shots, not about the business or regarding Family matters.

It’s Massimo.

I may not have actual proof of that, but after analyzing Father’s behavior, it’s as clear as day.

More than once I’ve caught Dad changing his stance on a particular topic after he’s returned from visiting Massimo. I’ve also noticed that he hedges rather than give a direct answer whenever he’s asked his opinion on important business issues.

Vague responses. Deflections. Clever excuses. Such an amazing proposition, Brio. Let me think a few days about it. Or, That’s very concerning, gentlemen. I’ll look into it. Avoidance, until he gets the chance to visit Massimo and receive guidance from his stepson. Sometimes I wonder if Dad ever actually makes any of the decisions that are supposed to rest with the don.

I finally find the folder I’m looking for and scan the stack of papers inside.

Sketches. Receipts for renovation materials. Invoices from the firm that completed the work, which happens to be a Family-run company that’s often used to launder money. Clever. Not only can we list the disbursements as business expenses on the casino side, since we’re paying out with clean money, but that cash gets pumped into the reno company to cover the inflated costs, and the firm ends up laundering its own funds.

I’m not sure what’s driving Massimo’s insistence on keeping the overall reno expenditure under two hundred grand, but he must have his reasons.

The final figures on the last page seem fine—just shy of the budget by less than a grand. Good. I slip the folder back into the safe and shut the door, then move my friend, Mr. Monet, back into his original place. This isn’t the best time to carefully review the other folders kept within the safe, but I’ll do that on one of the nights when neither Dad nor the household staff are around.

These little covert missions I’m doing for my stepbrother are slowly turning into quite an adventure. Apart from his first response where he explained the ins and outs of linear equations to me, all of his subsequent letters contained questions or asked for further information. And with that, for more than a year, he’s been using me to spy for him.

And I don’t mind it one bit.

Unlike my sister, I like the Cosa Nostra world. The intrigue. The sting of danger. Secret deals brokered under the shimmering lights of lavish parties. Parties that I would love to enjoy, but usually end up avoiding because I simply don’t fit in. This world is an entity of its own—it’s a complex, intricate macrocosm where only a select few are granted entry. As the don’s daughter, technically, I’m already a part of it. But in reality, I’m actually not.

A year ago, I was at a pretty dark point in my life, feeling utterly useless. And weak. Powerless. But now, I’m beyond ecstatic and filled with satisfaction because of everything I’ve done for Massimo, all without anyone else finding out. I don’t feel useless anymore. And I certainly don’t feel powerless. So no, I don’t give a shit that he’s using me apparently without remorse, because I don’t feel used. And I’m greatly enjoying the glimpses I’m getting of my mysterious stepbrother and his immoral methods. I can’t help but admire him for his devious, manipulative ways. The determination and pure single-mindedness required to achieve what he has, especially considering his circumstances, is mind-blowing.

Ruling the Italian Crime Family from inside prison walls.

Unbelievable.

I tiptoe out of Dad’s study and dash up the stairs, hurrying to compose my “report.” Maybe, I’ll also ask Massimo something else about himself. Something that would require more than a single-sentence answer. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be willing to share what he wants to do when he’s finally free to walk out the prison doors.

Zahara,

Glad to hear you were able to connect with Nuncio’s old buddy. He knows a lot of good stuff, so good on you for following through, kid.

I’m happy to know that his old habits haven’t changed, and he’s still hanging around his familiar stomping grounds. But keep in mind that his neighborhood isn’t always safe, so if you visit him again, make sure your timing is well coordinated. I would worry if you went to see him and he wasn’t there.

As for your question—I’ve never actually given it serious thought. I guess, I’d try to find a spot where all I could see is trees and the sky. No walls. Not another soul around. Just silence. I’d lose myself to staring at that openness for hours. And enjoy the peace.

You know, people tend to overlook the small everyday things, not realizing their value until they are ripped away. And I don’t mean just the material stuff. Something as simple as being able to sleep without hearing someone near you taking a piss, for example.

Later, I’d find a goddamned whorehouse and fuck my way through every woman in the joint.

PS: What the hell is fusible interfacing?

M.

I sign the letter and throw the folded paper into the rusty metal cabinet next to the bed, the final sentences still burning in my mind.

Yeah, I’ve got a detailed plan for every step I’ll take with regard to the Family business, but I never actually considered what I’m going to do for myself once I finally leave this shithole. I didn’t even think about it until now, answering my stepsister’s question.

Yup, getting laid sounds pretty good.

Do I miss sex? Of course I do. But the lack of it doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should. In the morning, I jerk off, and it’s nothing more than handling my body’s biological needs before I get on with my day. I don’t think about women at all. All my mental energy is directed to my main objective—making sure Boston La Famiglia is headed in the direction I want it to go. Nothing else matters. I don’t think about anything else. I don’t care about anything else. It’s as if my existence—can’t really call this life—depends on fulfilling that purpose. A shrink, if I gave a fuck about some overeducated ass’s opinion, would probably tell me that sort of single-minded focus isn’t normal, or healthy, for that matter. Good thing I didn’t ask. My way is the only thing that allows me to survive.

My life, as it was, stopped the moment Judge fucking Collins delivered his sentence.

Jesus fuck, you’re so dramatic, the annoying voice in the back of my mind mocks.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, willing the infuriating asshole to go away.

About a decade ago, I was treated to my first all-inclusive, extended trip to solitary. After a week in the hole, I must have snapped. Bored out of my damn mind, I started talking to myself. The echo off the peeling paint of the walls made it seem like another person was there with me. That’s when this fucker showed up to join the lively debate I was having.

No, I didn’t suddenly develop a split personality. I just imagined what my alter ego would say if it had a voice and ran with it, filling both sides of the conversation to pass the time. I liked the asshole. He was still me—obviously—but with less fucks to give about most things. It was freeing, in a way. So, I went back and forth in my mind on how I could have avoided the fight that got me thrown into that stinking hole in the first place. Once I got back to my cell, I figured the asshole would be gone to whatever dark corner of my gray matter it crawled out of.

It didn’t.

Exactly. You’re stuck with me. For good.

Jesus. Get lost!

The shrill ringing of the bell breaks the relative silence, signaling the lunch hour. I wait for the cell door to slide to the side, then step out while my bunkie, a lanky kid in his early twenties, keeps lazing on the upper cot. He got locked up for killing four people in the middle of his college quad, and despite us being cellmates for over three months, he still hasn’t mustered the courage to speak with me. Instead, he simply tries his best to stay out of my way. The day he arrived, a fight broke out in the chow hall, and he witnessed me trying to dig an inmate’s eye out using an empty yogurt container. This seems to have freaked him out.

Or maybe it’s my frequent vocal not-so-friendly chats with the pain in the ass living rent-free inside my head that got it done.

As if.

Fuck off!

It’s not like that fight was anything unusual. Shit like that happens at least once a week, either in the yard or the chow hall. Most times, the guards don’t even get involved. With so many crazy motherfuckers in one place, it’s safer and simpler to just let the cons sort out our issues than for COs to step in to break it up. This place follows a slightly different set of laws than good old Uncle Sam decrees. So, unless the brawl escalates to epic proportions, guards largely ignore what’s going on. But when the proverbial shit does hit the fan, they just douse the culprits with pepper spray. We call it “dinner and a show.” I quite enjoy the entertainment.

In the dining hall, the main line for chow has already formed. Typically, the room buzzes with a multitude of simultaneous conversations or guys yelling over each other, but not today. Most of the men are shuffling toward their food in silence, or are already seated and eating without uttering a word. The atmosphere feels charged.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Kiril mumbles as he falls in step with me, already holding his lunch tray. “We’ve got new arrivals.”

“I should have guessed. Who?”

“The president of Chelsea Biker Gang and his second-in-command. Armed robbery, and they ghosted a couple of cops.” He nods toward the two burly guys standing in the corner, glaring at me from across the hall. “Want me to get you a weapon?”

“No need.” I bump his fist with mine in thanks and head toward the food line, keeping my eye on the newcomers.

Survival behind bars is no different from surviving in a jungle. The local animals are segregated into packs. There are small ones and some bigger factions, each ruled by its own leader, all constantly fighting to maintain their place in the food chain. Everyone’s place in the hierarchy usually gets defined shortly after their arrival, and it depends on their connections, capabilities, and simply how mean the son of a bitch is. From time to time, a new fish or a dumbass who believes he’s some big shit, decides to challenge the apex predator and claim the seat of power for himself. Little do they know, in this shithole, I’m not only the alpha, I’m the jungle fucking king.

As I carry my chow toward the table by the narrow window, the two biker boys head in my direction. The taller one, sporting a bald head but a full beard, pulls a small switchblade from up his sleeve.

“You Spada?” the shorter guy asks when they reach me, smothering me with his bad breath and revealing a few missing teeth. His buddy stands next to him, gripping his weapon.

I set my tray on the table and smile. “You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already know.”

He narrows his eyes and gives a barely noticeable nod. The bearded guy swings, aiming for my kidney.

I grab “Harry’s” forearm and slam his hand on the table, making the asswipe howl in pain when his wrist connects with the metal edge. With my free hand, I swipe the tray and strike it against “Shorty’s” face, sending beans and pasta flying all around. A punch to the MC president’s solar plexus dispatches the foul-mouthed fuck to trail after my lunch until he lands on his back a few feet away, allowing me to focus on his bearded companion, who’s still clutching the blade.

I swing at him, aiming for his head, but the scumbag moves and slashes at me, catching my forearm with his knife. Cursing, I grab his wrist with one hand and his beard with the other, then whack his head on my raised knee. Blood explodes from his nose and drips onto the concrete floor right next to where he dropped his steel.

Someone grabs me from behind to pull me away, but I snap my head back, my skull cracking against the motherfucker’s, and kick the biker’s shin. Shouts come from every direction as the all-out fight consumes the chow hall. It really doesn’t take much to entice this crowd to join the fray, and food, trays, and plastic cutlery soar overhead.

“Harry” charges me, once again gripping his blade. I kick his hand away and grab the front of his shirt, then send him flying across the room, where he drops head-first on one of the tables and remains down, unmoving. When I turn around, looking for his buddy, I find Kiril squeezing the dickwad’s neck in his massive fist. “Shorty’s” feet are dangling off the ground, while the Bulgarian slaps the biker gang leader’s face with his free hand.

“I’ve been a bad boy,” Kiril says, his manner as easygoing as always, then smacks the man’s face one more time. “And I won’t do it again. Say it.”

Pain explodes in my shoulder. I turn around and headbutt my new attacker. The fucktard tried to bury a plastic shiv in me. I’m just swinging at the idiot’s face when the alarms blast from overhead speakers, accompanied by the spray of white mist. I shut my stinging eyes, blindly sending my fist flying, and feel it connect with the soft tissue just before I succumb to a coughing fit.

Damn COs and their pepper spray.